For The Sake of Comfort
by gnbrules
Summary: John and Sherlock make for strange bedfellows, but it's all in the name of a good night sleep. Not quite slash, not quite not slash - very much the way you want to perceive it. Spoilerish up to and including The Empty Hearse.
1. Chapter 1

**For The Sake of Comfort**

**Summary: John and Sherlock make for strange bedfellows, but it's all in the name of a good night sleep. Not quite slash, not quite not slash - very much the way you want to perceive it. Spoilerish up to and including The Empty Hearse.**

**A/N: Hi Sherlock fandom, I've come to join you and stay as I just finished watching the series and falling in love with it. No idea what took me so long. I'm currently very busy trying to decide if I ship Johnlock or not (I tend to live and die by canon, but all those shipteases make that a grey area here). I decided to write something about those two in the same tone of the show - that is to say, a way that's open for interpretation.**

Sherlock Holmes snores in his sleep. John Watson knew this because, on more than one occasion, he'd wandered out of his own room in the middle of the night for some water or tea and had heard the soft but distinct sound beyond Sherlock's bedroom door. It wasn't anything of particular significance to note, but it did entertain John a bit. Sherlock Holmes, who held himself so high above humanity, snored just like any common man. Sherlock Holmes, the great detective by day, snorer by night. Other than that small amusement, the snoring mattered very little.

It only ever mattered in its absence.

There were two weeks there, after Sherlock died; two weeks John remained at 221B Baker Street because he had nowhere else to go. He spent his days trying to find a new place to live that was not too shoddy and within his price range and not haunted by memories. He spent his evenings hearing Mrs. Hudson cry as quietly as she could so as not to depress him too. He spent his nights not sleeping except in brief dozes. It was that first bloody awful night that he'd trailed out of his room in search of tea or something stronger (much stronger) and it was then he heard it, something far worse than Mrs. Hudson's bouts of grief.

It was the empty, empty sound behind Sherlock's bedroom door. It was a reigning silence that enveloped him. That night, that moment, a sob formed in John's throat and nearly choked him. He stood there on the landing between their doors for an impossibly long time. Not moving, barely breathing, unable to comprehend. He'd never hear Sherlock Holmes snore again.

He had to get out of 221B Baker Street. It was an empty place for him now. So that's exactly what he did, as soon as he could manage it.

And then, and then, and then. Lovely Mary and her lovely heart. She took him in and he fell so slowly and so quickly too. He must have still been a mess. He could see that, sometimes, reflected in her eyes when she looked at him. But she stayed and loved him and he fell in love right back. And her bed was his. Her soft sounds, warm breathing in the night, they sustained him through the pain. Through the recovery as well.

And then, and then, and then. Sherlock who was not dead. Sherlock who had never died. The mixed emotions of that revelation left him gasping for some way to release it all. Joy and anger and violence, and a renewed grief, so raw. _How could you? _Not a word and not a note and the silence of an empty room. _ How could you leave me with only that?_

It stung in some impossible way.

It took a long time to forgive Sherlock for that, and far longer still to return to something of the way they were. Trust needed to be built again and Sherlock had to adjust to news of Mary and John had to adjust to news of Sherlock. Even when all that was settled, there was no taking back those years he lost and fell in love and moved on. John Watson did not belong on Baker Street anymore.

But the pair worked cases because cases needed to be worked. Crime did not rest and lives needed to be saved, and that was what they did – the Detective and the Doctor, solving and saving. For John, there was no use in pretending he didn't enjoy that.

One night they worked a case that simply refused to be solved. They whiled away the hours at Baker Street, looking over boxes of evidence and photos and the odds and ends. John wanted to go home to Mary but Sherlock was insistent. "I need you here, John. You help me think."

John wanted to ask how Sherlock had managed to think for those two years of being fake dead then if he was so important to the process (he could still be a little bitter about that), but it was then that he got a text message from Mary.

_Please stay there, John. I don't need you falling asleep at the wheel on account of me. No fiery crash surprises, please._

She was right, of course. He was nodding off there in his chair, watching Sherlock work. He was far from fit to get on the road, and with her approval, he was rather unmotivated as well.

_Okay, I will. I love you._

_I love you too, John Watson._

He loved it when she called him his full name like that. She'd always reserved it for a particularly warm affection.

_Goodnight, Mary Morstan._

Sherlock gave up on solving the case that night shortly after that. It was like he knew he'd get John to stay just long enough to make spending the night over the most sensible thing to do. "We'll solve it tomorrow," Sherlock said, like it was his choice alone. "I'm tired now. Goodnight, John."

"Night, Sherlock," John mumbled, and he willed himself to rise from his chair and head to his old room. Before he could muster up the necessary energy to do so, he nodded off where he sat, right in his seat.

He awoke with a start sometime later and automatically looked at his watch. Sherlock had gone to bed over an hour ago. He'd surely be sleeping by now, and had left John to his own devices. John headed up the stairs, wondering if his old room was just as empty as he'd left it. There would be no sheets nor blankets nor pillows to speak of, just a bare mattress. It wasn't something he looked forward to, but it would have to do.

But when John reached the landing, he stopped dead in his tracks. He'd worn this path many times over. Only in the worst weeks of his life had it ever been this quiet. A worried panic began in his mind, resounded in his chest. Sherlock had gone to bed an hour ago. He should have been sleeping by now. He should have been snoring. Yet he was not. There was just that empty, empty sound. John swallowed tightly.

_He's not dead,_ he thought. _You know that. Sherlock is not dead. He was never dead. _

He repeated those words in his head but they were no comfort. He had to be sure. He pressed a hand to the door. He'd just peak in. He'd just check. He stood like that for a long moment until finally the choice was taken out of his hands. Sherlock's door swung open and there he stood, dressed in his robe and looking not at all surprised to see John there.

"I was just-"

"I know," said Sherlock quietly.

And John wanted to know what he meant by that, if Sherlock could possibly have deduced that he'd been standing there trying to believe his best friend was alive, trying to forget grief that clung for _years, _trying to combat the silence of a once empty room.

"Well, _come in, _John." instructed Sherlock as if that were obvious, and he held the door open a little wider for John to pass through.

John stared at him. "Why?"

"For God's sake, John, you're letting in the draft."

That seemed as good an argument as any. John stepped inside and Sherlock closed the door behind them, and then proceeded back to his bed without another word. John watched him settle under the covers and adjust himself on his pillows. "Well, come sit or lay or however it is you sleep," said Sherlock, making it once again sound as though he were explaining the obvious to a dim-witted child.

There was only one place in the room to sit or lay or sleep, if you didn't count the floor.

"The bed?" John coughed out. "Why?" he asked again.

Sherlock huffed out a heavy sigh. "You should know already, but since you don't, I'll lay it out for you piece by piece. The first piece is this: you are exhausted, and you need a good sleep to be at all useful to me tomorrow on this clever of a case. Secondly, I know that your room is currently quite bare. No sheets nor blankets, no _comfort _for sleeping at all. Thirdly, you could certainly ask Mrs. Hudson for spare blankets but would _never _wake her up this late, and as neither of us know where she keeps those things...well, are you getting it now or should I continue?"

"So you're saying I should sleep in your bed with you because I have nowhere else to go that would allow me to sleep well, and you don't want me tired tomorrow. And you don't mind sharing, apparently."

"If I minded, I would not have offered."

John looked at Sherlock. There were many things he felt he'd never understand about his friend. And whatever his own reservations were, those fluffy-looking pillows were awfully inviting.

"To hell with it," he said, and kicked off his shoes. Then he sat tentatively on the edge of the bed. There was more than enough room for them both, but John kept the distance as he laid back. In fact, it felt far too strange to settle under the covers, so he rested himself upon them, fully clothed but still comfortable enough. It was far better than the chair downstairs or the bare mattress in his room would have been. That much John knew.

Sherlock reached over and turned off the lamp on his bedside table, putting them into relative darkness, save for the moonlight shining in through the window.

They lay there for a moment in the quiet, Sherlock pondering God knows what and John still thinking on how strange this all was, before he mumbled out, "I'm still not gay, you know." He would have said it with more assertiveness, but already the comforts of the impossibly soft bed were starting to claim him, and so it came out more like a contented sigh.

"I'm well aware, John. I invited you in here to get sleep, not for any racy thoughts or fantasies you might have cooked up in that dreadful imagination of yours."

"I haven't had any rac-"

"I also did not invite you to keep me up with your incessant chatter. I expect to sleep as well tonight."

John was a little annoyed, but Sherlock did have a point. They were both tired, and what did he have to prove? Nothing. Not to Sherlock, at least. "Right. Of course. Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

It was a very strange situation, but John decided thinking on it too much would probably just make it even stranger. He had his very-much-alive best friend beside him, and the bed really was the softest he'd ever encountered. Within twenty minutes of lying down, John was falling into a contented sleep, the sound of a familiar snore humming in his ears.

**A/N: That ending was where I wanted to leave it to provide a sweet closure of friendship, love, and comfort, but the little devil in me just had to write a little humor scene for the morning after. Don't expect too much - it's very short, and I'm going to refer to it as the "Bonus Epilogue" because it really is more bonus than anything. Reviews always appreciated.**


	2. Bonus Epilogue

**Bonus Epilogue**

Sherlock was already downstairs enjoying the breakfast that Mrs. Hudson had made by the time John woke up. To be honest, John was rather glad; waking up next to Sherlock Holmes might have been just a little bit too disconcerting for the beginning of a new day. John attempted to smooth out his wrinkled clothes, but gave it up after a moment and headed downstairs to join them.

Mrs. Hudson was quite surprised to see him when he entered the kitchen. "Oh, John! I thought for certain you'd gone home last night. You see, I woke up in a nervous panic in the early hours, like one does when they've realized they've forgotten something. And I realized, I should have made you up a bed! So I went into your room with some blankets but you weren't there, and you weren't downstairs either, so I assumed you must have driven home after all!"

"No, it got too late. And I'm sorry you awoke on account of me."

"Not your fault at all, dear. But where on earth did you sleep?"

John felt his cheeks burn a little, knew they were coloring to what was probably a distinct shade of red. He glanced at Sherlock, who looked altogether impassive and bored. John looked back at Mrs. Hudson, tried to think of something to say, and failed.

His glance in combination with his expression must have said it all though, because a look of realization crossed Mrs. Hudson's face. "Oh. _Oh," _she squeaked, glancing at Sherlock now too. "Well as I always say, live and let live. You two do go quite well together. Although I do hope Mary knows already and isn't too hurt over it."

"Mrs. Hudson, it wasn't like that. He just knew I needed a bed. We just literally _slept._"

"Oh, of course, John. That makes a lot of sense, now that you mention it."

John looked to Sherlock for support and defense, but what he got instead was one of the cheekiest smiles John had ever seen him give.

John glared in response, then sighed in resignation. There would never come a day when being best friends with Sherlock Holmes wouldn't make him seem irrefutably gay, no matter how much he protested or even how much the very _facts _said otherwise.


End file.
